


Strangers When We Meet

by evilmouse



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Casual Sex, Cooking, F/M, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Inappropriate Use of the Force, It's hard work seducing a Jedi, M/M, Manipulation, Massage, Missing Scene, Prostitution, Reader-Insert, Rough Sex, The Erotic Adventures of Luke Skywalker, Top Luke, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:54:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25507801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmouse/pseuds/evilmouse
Summary: You're a professional.  He's the hero of the Rebellion that definitely didnotorder company tonight.
Relationships: Luke Skywalker/Reader, Luke Skywalker/You
Comments: 16
Kudos: 93
Collections: Cheer Up Aria





	Strangers When We Meet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [enmudecer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enmudecer/gifts).



> ...everyone thought you'd love a smutty self-insert with Luke. (Of course, who wouldn't?!) I hope this entertains and satisfies. Wishing you much love and pervy happiness <3
> 
> With thanks to [JessKo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessKo/pseuds/JessKo) for the beta!

“Hi? Can I help you?”

The guy who appears when the portal clicks open is young—younger than you expected—but the confusion on his face is not at all what you like to see. Unfortunately, you’ve had similar encounters—unsuspecting clients surprised with a gift. Before he can ask any more questions, you step quickly over the threshold.

“I’m your company tonight. You didn’t comm the agency?”

Realization dawns more slowly than most on his features. He’s cute. Not stereotypically handsome, but adorable in a naïve sort of way. Definitely not a virgin, not with those gorgeous blue eyes and pretty lips. He understands well enough, now.

“Oh, no.” The man shakes his head vigorously, unevenly cut hair flying. “No, no no no no.”

The portal to his temporary quarters swishes closed. You’re relieved to be on the right side, and glad he doesn’t immediately press it open again.

“Yes,” you offer, gently. “Maybe I’m a gift?” You arch one eyebrow, wondering if he’s going to need convincing, or if he just regrets making the order in the first place. 

Sometimes there is a bit of buyer’s remorse from clients, and they try to get out of it. The firm you work for is reputable, established, and one of the planet’s most expensive. It’s true this twenty-something doesn’t look like he can afford you, but appearances can be deceiving. One of the first lessons learned in the pleasure industry.

“No!” he protests, then grimaces, full lips twisting to the left. “At least, I hope not. There’s been a mistake.”

“I don’t make mistakes,” you answer, taking off your vintage Hapan outer jacket and tossing it over the back of the assembly-line occasional chair in the entryway. “Tonight I’m assigned to room 1138, _and_ its occupant. Luke?” You cock an eyebrow, seeing confirmation in his rounded eyes. “My services have already been fully paid, including gratuity, and my employer would be most upset if I returned early. We have a reputation to maintain.”

This seems to give him pause, and a long-fingered hand runs once, then twice through that unkempt blond hair.

“Look, I’m sorry, but I really didn’t—” He catches the disappointed moue on your face, an expression honed by experience and one most human males find appealing. 

“I didn’t—” he tries again. “I don’t—”

“Let’s discuss what you _do_ , then,” you interrupt. It’s fine with you if he just wants to pretend you aren’t here, but there’s no way you’re leaving until dawn. Still, you have professional pride in your charms and are fairly certain you can crack this one. He’s too…sweet. In your business, sweet is often merely the outer shell of wild.

“So you’re Luke then, right?” You keep the tone light, breezy, and step further into the room. He stands to the side, biting his lower lip, as you set your discreet work satchel on the ugly plaid-carpeted floor. It contains the most standard tools of your trade, as well as some more unusual implements. Best to be prepared, especially with a first-time client.

“Yeah,” he manages when you turn to face him, and then looks immediately rueful at the admission, wincing.

“Luke.” You smile, gesturing at the tiny sofa and taking a seat without waiting for him to move. Anyone watching would think _you_ are hosting, and they wouldn’t be entirely wrong. “Let’s talk.”

“I don’t want to talk. Or do _anything_.” A blush creeps up his neck at his own implication. “I told you, this is all a mistake.”

Your eyes harden slightly, lips pursed. “I already said I don’t make mistakes, Luke. Please sit.”

He looks even more uncomfortable, but something—perhaps ingrained discipline—makes him sit. As far away from you as the narrow cushions will allow.

“I understand you aren’t happy with me being here.” He nods ever so slightly. “I’m sorry about that. I’m guessing your friends or your patron, whoever ordered my services, misjudged your tastes.”

His eyes become saucers, confused. So pretty, those eyes, you think again, like paintings you’ve seen of Alderaanian waterfalls. And now that you are really paying attention, you decide that the rigid set of his jaw and the throb of an angry pulse in his neck makes him more than simply cute. Luke looks like a coiled spring about to explode, stress edging his eyes, framing his mouth. A challenge. Undeniably striking. Definitely a wild streak. One you’re looking forward to confirming.

“Someone personally chose me for you,” you continue. “I suppose you find me ugly, unappealing. Or wish I were a different species or gender.” This time his mouth parts into an uneven pout that you suspect tastes of sugar and light. Everything about this guy is sweet; you’ve already slotted him mentally into that category, complete with associated predilections.

“No, that’s not it!”

“Excellent,” you beam at him, clasping your hands in delight. “So you _are_ attracted to me?” Your smile widens and you produce your datachip with health guarantees. “I’m glad they got something right. Here.”

He takes it reflexively, face a full-blown rouge, staring at the rectangle like it’s an alien artifact.

“What’s this?”

“My medical file. Proof that I’m free of disease, you know, no Gamorrean clap or any of that, and records of my reproductive suppressors. So you don’t have anything to worry about.” Luke’s expression borders on horror, holding the chip like something toxic, as the color drains from his skin. You lean in closer, trying to understand the reaction.

“Surely someone your age didn’t request a breeder?”

The horror changes to shock, then he laughs, a real chuckle, not the nervous kind you expect. It leads to another, and then another. Good. And oh, he is _much_ more than cute when he laughs, this young man. The lines that you thought indicated stress around his mouth deepen, highlighting his cheekbones, and his teeth are perfect. Blue eyes crinkle, sparkle, and his whole aura shifts. He is absolutely delicious and you decide you will have him. You must. It’s been a long time since you found a client so captivating.

“No,” he wipes his face, calming. “Sorry, I just…It’s so professional, transactional.”

“If you prefer, I offer a life partner experience?”

He raises a questioning eyebrow desperately in need of a groom, good humor disappearing from his face. 

“Some clients don’t want to be reminded that it’s something they pay for,” you explain. “When I arrive, we both pretend to be in a relationship already, things like that.”

“Oh.” Luke looks sober at this, but thankfully more relaxed than before. He hands you back the chip without checking it. “Well, too late for that, huh?”

“No, it’s not too late. We can start right here, if you want.” You cross your legs, preparing to launch into the new role.

“I don’t really want to start anywhere, sorry—uh…what’s your name, anyway?”

You smile, reaching for his hand, surprised when he lets you take it. It’s quickly pulled back though, the sizzle of electricity you were hoping for short-circuited before it can ignite.

“Anything you like to call me.”

“Are you serious?!” His voice climbs a register in disbelief. “How does anyone verify it’s really you on the datachip, if you don’t actually use your real name!?”

Good question, and one most clients don’t consider. This guy with the Outer Rim accent isn’t a stupid hick, that is clear.

“I’m ordered by number, so your patron—”

“Probably my friends,” Luke mutters. “ _Former_ friends.”

“Right, your _friends_ would have known what number to match to the chip. Some files _are_ actually in my real name, but we discourage clients from getting too interested in that. It ruins the experience.”

He sits back on the sofa, openly staring at you. You uncross your legs and scooch a little nearer to him, just as much as you think you can get away with before he notices.

“What _is_ the experience?” Swallowing, his Adam’s apple bobs almost comically. Luke folds his arms tightly over his chest. Classic defensive body language. His welcome fit of laughter feels like the distant past.

“Whatever you want. I do it all.” You pull one leg up on the cushion, turning towards him, closing some distance. “Would you like to know my specializations?”

“No, sorry,” he shrugs, “I’m not interested.”

 _Yes you_ **_are_** _,_ you gloat internally. After all, he’d just _asked_ for more information, hadn’t he? But you don’t say that. Instead you say: “I understand.” You inject sympathy into your tone, laying one manicured hand briefly on his thigh, but removing it before he can recoil. What a thigh. Lean muscle, those tight black pants he’s wearing don’t do it justice. 

“Well,” you look around the room as if considering, “I’m more than sexual company. I’m a certified stress counselor, a licensed massage therapist, an accredited nutritionist with a six-star chef rating from Coruscant Culinary Institute, I’ve trained at the Ryloth Satellite Academy in exotic and sensual dance, and can perform popular songs from sixteen systems in forty-three languages. Among other skills.”

Luke uncrosses his arms. Opens his mouth like he has a retort, then shuts it. Crosses the arms again. His biceps bulge ever so slightly from the press against his sides. He has _very_ nice muscles, you note. Not too big, not too small. It’s not often you get such a fine physical specimen for a client.

He stops fighting instinct then, and gives in to the urge to speak. 

“What the _kriff_ ?!” The tone is incredulous. “I mean…why do you do _this_? If you can do all _that_?!”

You laugh. The true answer—this job pays far better than any one of those skills individually—isn’t what a client wishes to hear.

“I like making people happy. And surprising them,” you add. “Admit it, you’re surprised.”

He nods so hard it’s amusing, that shaggy hair falling into his eyes. “Oh sure, I admit it,” he says. “But I still don’t…feel comfortable with you here.”

“That’s all right,” you pat his knee this time, enjoying the flutter in your chest at the contact. It’s been a long time since _anyone_ gave you butterflies. “Have you had dinner?”

“…No.” The answer is hesitant, cautious. 

“Let me cook you something, Luke?”

“I don’t think—” His phrase is interrupted by a rumble in his stomach. “Fine,” he amends. “But only if you tell me your real name.”

You stand up and head for the small modular kitchen, a victorious smirk flickering across your face. “Deal.”

~~

Less than an hour later, you and Luke are perched at the minimalist kitchen table, both devouring Pantoran-style grilled topatos with a garnish of honey and Bimm mustard sauce. Simple, but from the grin on Luke’s face, definitely a hit. He’s more relaxed now, and positively chatty since the food was served. He doesn’t say anything about himself though—perhaps embarrassed to share—but he’s had a lot of questions for you.

“I can’t believe you like your job as much as you say,” he scoffs. Wiping away a bit of brown sauce with the side of his hand, he takes another helping of your meal. “There are so many slimebuckets out there…”

You find yourself being strangely honest. Since telling Luke your real name, things feel different. It’s a gift you’ve only offered a few clients, and almost always regretted it after. So far, Luke hasn’t made you regret it.

“There are, but my agency’s price point helps assure a more professional customer, or at least ones with more at risk should something go wrong.”

“How much do you—” He thinks better of the phasing, which you find charming. “How many credits do they charge then?”

“A lot.” It’s bad form to reveal exact price to a giftee. But it was clear Luke had more than a few good friends, to afford you.

“How many—how…” He trails off. “In a day…” Luke starts again.

“I have a maximum of one assignment a day. Sometimes just one a week.”

“And what if they turn out to be, you know, bad?”

The question is fair, considering the topic, but you would rather not think about it. There have only been a few “bad” experiences, thankfully.

“You’d be surprised Luke. A lot of people just want to talk, want someone to listen or lean on. Even just company to watch a holo. Many of my repeat engagements are non-sexual. I confess,” you smile and point with your fork at his plate, “I don’t often get to cook, though.”

“You’re a great cook!” he says enthusiastically through another mouthful of topato.

“Thank you!” You match his tone. “I also give great massages!”

The enthusiasm dims. You sense he’s still a bit wary about physical contact, about your reason for being here.

“Luke, I’m not an enemy. I’m not going to do anything you don’t want. It’s just I can tell by how you sit that you carry a lot of tension in your shoulders and lower back.”

Surprise again, a look that is both endearing and amusing on that innocent face.

“It’s the X-Wing,” he confesses, “the cockpit’s just not designed for long sorties, and—” Luke stops abruptly, as if he’s revealed some secret information.

“And?” you ask mildly, deliberately ignoring his reaction.

Clearing his throat, Luke shakes his head. “Nothing. Forget it.”

You don’t care that he’s with the Rebellion. It certainly explains that starry-eyed optimist look in his baby blues. You’ve fucked Rebels before. Imperials too. Business is business and politics is the enemy of prosperity, at least in your domain.

“So after dessert, maybe you’ll let me work out those kinks?”

He grunts and says nothing, mouth full, but his eyes shine differently than earlier.

~~

Dessert was a homemade blue milkshake with chocolate syrup. You’d guessed correctly that Luke had a sweet tooth. He glowed when you served it, and you assumed that it did much to convince him to allow you to display more of your talents.

Your reluctant client is now stretched out on the bed, fully clothed. Before agreeing to a massage, he asked to check your official identification, perhaps to gauge your honesty when you’d confided your name earlier. You show him, patiently waiting as he reads and evaluates. He’s not as naïve as first impressions would indicate, that’s already established. 

Luke scans the TrueChip on your ID into his room’s visitor log, assuring that there is a record of your presence. More paranoid than your average Rebel flyboy. You are curious, but experience has taught you answers related to clients’ quirks are often located too close to trouble.

Despite your assurances, Luke refuses to undress. He’s not shy, that’s not it. You assess he has some psychological block that prevents him from accepting sexual gifts. It’s not uncommon in some cultures and species, but certainly uncommon in the ones you usually encounter.

You nonetheless can handle this. It’s not ideal, but you are confident in your abilities. Starting with his legs, sheathed in those too-tight pants, you work the soleus muscles, feeling the knots fight back. He’s very tense; you doubt he’s had a good massage in ages, if ever. Luke tries to chat, a nervous response, but as your fingers soothe away the tension in his legs, his words slow. By the time you reach his back, he’s silent, breathing even, arms limp.

“Hey,” you whisper.

“Mmm,” he answers sleepily. “Done?”

“No…almost. It would be more effective though, if…” you tug the bottom of his tunic from the waistband of his pants, gliding one flat palm along the edge. “All right?”

Facedown, he nods, then sighs as you slide both hands up the smooth planes of his back, raising the shirt shoulder-high. You swallow your satisfaction as Luke lifts his arms, mute, over his head, indicating you can completely remove it.

So _tan_ , the first thought in your head as you look down at the skin awaiting your ministrations. How long does he _really_ spend in the cockpit, to have such sun-bronzed coloring? Your fingers are already on him, firm and searching, finding the myofascial trigger points and working them, stretching and kneading the muscles. Luke sighs a few times in contentment and doesn’t protest when you tug his pants lower to better work the lumbar muscles.

So _fit_ : the second thought that pushes out the first related to his coloring. What a body. He’s very relaxed now, and, true to your word, _you_ maintain professional distance, although your hands do _not_ , over the sixty minutes. Human erogenous zones are fairly predictable, and you know them well. While you’re working his scalp, running your fingers though that soft, fluffy hair, Luke lets out a moan that’s a little more urgent than relaxed, and sounds suspiciously close to your name. You tug gently and his eyes crack open, his limbs freezing at his own response to you.

“Done?” His voice sounds weak.

“I hope not,” you whisper, skating your hands from his head down the nape, over his spine and lower. 

Definitely your name now, yes, and he sounds breathless, resigned, as he turns face up. But when you try to dip beneath that already low waistband, seeing his body’s willingness well-defined by the crotch of his clothing, he pushes up.

“I can’t,” he says. “I want to, but…I can’t.”

“You can. _I_ want to.”

Luke sits cross-legged on the bed, facing you. Quickly you match his pose, knees touching. He avoids your eyes.

“You’re paid to say that.”

“What would you prefer I say?”

“The truth.”

“It is the truth.”

“You want to kriff a total stranger, for fun, not money?”

You consider, having assembled a psychological profile of your client over the past few hours. Luke is service-oriented, he seems to consider himself noble, above using others, even if they are willing to submit to him. Self-sacrificing. You know what he needs to hear.

“Actually, I’m asking _you_ to kriff a total stranger, Luke. People do it all the time, even if you don’t. And yes—I get paid to do things, fulfill desires and requests that other people make. But no one ever asks me what _I_ want. How I want to be pleasured, what my favorite positions are, my fantasies, things like that.” 

This is the first and only blatant lie you tell him. Several of your regulars are _very_ attentive—particularly that kinky admiral—and frequently take your desires into account. Many powerful men get off on extracting orgasms, it is a fact. But Luke wants to feel special, and wants to serve, not be served. You can give him that.

“But I bet _you_ would do that for me, right?”

He swallows. Confusion flits across shadowed eyes, followed by doubt. Finally he leans back on his palms, defense written in his posture.

“So now you’re asking me to do what _you_ want?”

You nod, lowering your eyes just the right amount. Luke is quiet and you also remain silent, waiting. 

“ _I’m_ not a …”

He trails off, obviously regretting the intended phrase, but it gives you all the ammunition you need to guilt him into compliance.

“Of course not,” you stiffen your spine, blinking your eyes rapidly. “I didn’t wish to imply you were for sale, Luke. Forgive me, that was entirely inappropriate.”

“No,” he says, leaning forward, closer now. “I didn’t mean…” Luke sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. “Sorry.”

“I’ll go,” you offer, uncrossing your legs and dangling them off the side of the bed. “I’ve ruined your night.”

“You haven’t,” Luke says firmly. “You’re really nice. You made me a great dinner and I don’t have back pain for the first time in months. I’m just being rude.”

You let his words hang in the air, just a few seconds for your lack of argument to register. Then: “If you just met me on the street or something, I might have a chance?”

Luke bites his lower lip, some inner struggle at answering clearly visible.

“You’re beautiful,” he finally says. “And you seem great.” A small smile. “And your blue milkshakes are incredible.”

You smile back. “You’re great too.” You stand up and stretch, displaying your assets to their best advantage. “Please don’t hate me for asking you to do something for me. And please don’t tell the agency—I’d get fired. Bad enough I’ll be returning early. That’s always a problem.”

Luke stands up too. “I won’t, I mean…” Hesitation again. “Tell me what kind of…boyfriend you’d want, if you had one.”

You take a step closer, thoughts racing. A Rebel. Idealistic. Young. Romantic, untouched by cynicism and with a high opinion of his own moral fiber and no doubt skills in the bedroom. What would convince him to have you? Honesty, maybe, would work. Preposterous, really, but you could try. If it failed, you would have Plan B. You always had a Plan B.

“Promise not to make fun of me?” 

He nods, the edges of his mouth deepening, serious. 

“I hate making decisions, explaining things to a lover. I’m exhausted by choices. My perfect partner would just instinctively _know_ things about me, decide things for me, how I want to be kissed, how I want to be touched, how I want him to make love to me.” You shrug, defeated. “I know it’s impossible. I’m looking for a mind reader.”

Luke looks strange, considering and sober. His lower eyelids tense, his shoulders square. You turn on the charm, a megawatt smile. “Thank you for not laughing, at least.”

“A mind reader?” he says, and that was not the takeaway you were expecting, but you tilt your head at the question, waiting for more. “What you describe doesn’t really sound…healthy. You know, someone making all your choices for you. Still maybe…”

Then he laughs, but it’s low, soft. A sexy sound in the dim light of the bedroom. “I just realized I could tell you it’s late, make you go to sleep, or go home, if I made all your decisions. But—”

“But?”

“But you don’t want me to do that.”

 _Now_ , there is absolute, utter confidence in his tone. Luke’s voice has changed, shed all uncertainty. It’s firm, authoritative, and you feel a tingle from your ears to your toes. He’s decided something, and your own poise falters. What if he _is_ a mind reader, or an empath like a Gotal? The ambiance had certainly just shifted.

“No, I don’t,” you agree quietly.

“You really do want this. Want me.” There is no question, no confirmation sought. You give it anyway, feeling a rush of heat between your thighs.

“Yes.”

“Tell me what you want. The truth. Not what you think I need to hear for your,” he waves a hand dismissively, “professional seduction.”

The command has weight, heft to the words. This is not at all going the way you had planned. You lick your lips, mouth as dry as your basics are wet. Should you apologize? Luke’s blue eyes hold yours, searching, burning. You speak without preparation, words tumbling out.

“The truth is I want you to take me. Hard. Rough. Up against this wall. Right now. And I don’t want you to ask me for instructions, or reasons, or anything else.”

His eyes narrow and you feel _something_ …a bizarre push, somewhere behind your nose, as if you had jumped into the ocean of your homeworld, water rushing into your head from the pressure of submersion. You gulp for oxygen, almost expecting to taste salt and brine. The air in your lungs is tight, constricted. Insufficient.

Luke had asked for the truth and you had given it. So why do you feel underwater, subsumed by some force that pushes and prods your brain? _Is he a mind reader?_ you wonder again, but that’s the last question in your thoughts as Luke’s eyes flare with desire. In an instant, he’s seized your wrists, slamming them to the wall by your ears, and crushes his mouth to yours.

This is _not_ the sugar and sun you expected—this is darker—charged with frustration and guilt, something more sinister flavoring his kiss. You wouldn’t dream of resisting these calloused hands or eager tongue, surrendering with relief to his strength, savoring the repressed passion that you are glad to service. Luke needs an outlet, a release, something his friends had apparently guessed. Whatever he’d read in your ‘truth’ was enough to send him over the edge.

His thigh presses up between your legs, hard against your crotch. You grind down against the muscle, groaning at the friction. There is nothing planned or controlled about this, and it’s dangerously delicious. His lips tug at yours, then travel down your neck to nip and suck. You arch into the sharpness of his teeth, wanting him to understand you welcome his claim. Bruises, bites, just the thought of this golden pilot acceding to your expressed wishes is enough for you to relish his violent compliance.

A cruel pang of remorse jerks your mind back to reality. He can claim you, but you won’t ever be his… not for longer than a night. Perhaps a good thing he was so resistant to your charms at first. For some reason, one you won’t dissect now, not with his merciless grip and furious kisses pinning you in place, Luke knows you want—need—this too. He’s a pleaser, accommodating, as you predicted. You read him correctly—well, mostly correctly, although you never would have guessed at the power and fearsome energy he’s exuding.

“Hard.” Luke whispers against your throat, punctuating the word with a harsh swipe of his tongue. “Rough.” He’s not asking. He’s reminding you, perhaps, of your request. His voice makes you shiver.

“Please,” you breathe.

A pause, that strange impression of submerging returns, this time even more excruciating. You feel exposed in a way you never have, but think as hard as you can “ _yes yes yes_ ,” just in case that’s Luke in your brain, in your head, drowning you in some mental power. It makes no sense, but it also doesn’t feel impossible. And then he’s ripping, your expensive, revealing tunic shredded in seconds as steely fingers tear it from your body.

Another crash of his lips to yours, punishing. You feel censured, like you have spoiled something pure. _He’s not made for this…_ A fleeting thought, but then Luke’s hands are between your thighs, fingers parting, pressing inside, and you aren’t thinking anymore.

Your basics are soaked, discarded in seconds, your hands, now free, fumbling for Luke’s pants. He’s ahead of you, shoving them down his hips. You both are in a race, an arbitrary clock running an imaginary countdown. His movements are as frenzied as yours, one hand tangling in your hair, the other lifting your knee to his waist, spreading you wide.

 _Yes yes yes_ the refrain repeats in your head, the frantic pounding of your heart so loud you’re certain he can hear it.

The sensation that something is _wrong_ , not exactly _bad_ , more like you’ve unwittingly connected an incompatible power convertor to burn out an overloaded engine, is prevalent, but Luke’s mouth descends to your chest and you no longer care. His teeth scrape your nipples, the rushed wash of his tongue the only respite from the sharp sucking that dances close to pain. Ecstatic cries fall like Chandrilian snow from your lips, your hands carding through the softness of his hair. Remembering what he liked before, you pull on it, drawing his head back to your lips.

His tongue renews its attack on yours, hot and possessive. As you fight back, Luke’s cock shoves deep inside, an assault on two fronts. You gasp into his mouth, stifling the cry of divine discomfort at the stretch of him. He tenses, and you fear for a moment he’ll withdraw, rethink, or worse, apologize, but Luke does none of these things. Instead, he circles his hips, making you squirm, and thrusts deeper, starting a rapid rhythm. His breath comes ragged, his pace unforgiving. 

“Yes…” You’ve been repeating the affirmation in your head so often, you almost don’t realize you’ve said it out loud. 

Your hands grab his hips, gliding across the tight skin to rest on his ass, feeling those recently smoothed muscles contract as he fucks you exactly the way you wanted. Luke changes up the tempo, sometimes dragging inexorably out, other times slamming deep so hard your head or elbow hits the wall. You can feel him adjusting, the angle of his cock sliding perfectly as he lifts beneath your knees, bracing you as he thrusts. His hands, slick with sweat and sex, slip once, resulting in a wonderfully deep penetration as you fall onto his erection.

This time you can’t stifle the cry, and Luke ducks his head to capture your lips, his kiss softer but firm. He lowers your legs and you want to complain at the modification, swallowing the words. So far, it’s been amazing. _He’s_ been amazing. Experience has shown you long ago there’s no such thing as “deceptively sweet”—everyone wears a mask, harbors secret fantasies and tendencies only guessed at before exploring. This dominant, controlling man fucking you like your lives depended upon it wasn’t even hinted at an hour ago, but that was the fun of your work. You bring this out in people, excite them, _incite_ them. It _was_ the truth that you wanted him to fuck you like this, but primarily because it was so obvious that Luke _needed_ to fuck you like this.

With a low growl that brings a marvelous shiver up your backbone, Luke pulls out and spins you to face the wall. You spread your fingers, steadying yourself. Kicking your booted feet wider with his own—neither of you has completely disrobed—he drives back into your heat. Now, since your hands can support you, Luke doesn’t hold back. The speed of his fucking and force of his thrusts increase, relentless and desperate. You drop a hand between your legs to touch yourself as the delicious length of him makes you shake and quiver. Luke’s right hand slips around, covering your own. He presses with you, stroking, scratching, teasing until your moans turn into screams and you jerk at the waist, shuddering in hinged spasms as you come again and again on his cock. Everything throbs, everything aches, everything evaporates until you wonder if you’ll pass out. But then he releases you from the endless climax, his tongue marking a path from your ear to your shoulder blade. With a final mischievous flick of your hypersensitive flesh as he bites down, Luke trails a damp line up from your core, twining wet fingers in your hair and bowing your spine back as he continues to fuck you. You don’t know how long it’s been, but you have already decided it will never be enough. You have never been so completely possessed by a client, so satisfied in your success or smug in his surrender. 

The aftershock of your orgasms persist, throbbing dully through your limbs as you hang suspended between the wall and Luke, secured by his cock inside you. His hand slides from your scalp to your throat. With a moan, you push back, ready for more, ready for him to last until you are raw and begging, but with a few final, long slams to your center, he pulls out, releasing you. You hold your breath, waiting for the inevitable warmth of come on your ass, wanting to feel the sticky heat of him, the proof of your shared triumph, but…

Luke’s respiration is slowing as you spin around, seeing the reason for your disappointment—he’d directed his climax into his pants, still hanging low on his hips. How… considerate. Without a word, he kicks off his boots, steps completely out of his clothes and shuffles into the refresher. You see the glow of the light, hear the healthy roar of the sonic, and turn your attention to cleaning yourself up. 

Your basics are hopeless, but you always have an extra pair (or two) in your bag. Clothes ripping is a pretty common fantasy, and thankfully the agency reimburses wardrobe. You are digging for another shirt when Luke appears, freshly showered, wrapped in a hotel bathrobe. He’s got a clean tunic in his hand, held out like an offering.

“You can wear this,” he says, voice not exactly cold, but guarded. 

It’s on the tip of your tongue to say you have an extra, but instinct dictates it would be better to accept the gesture. Luke likes to serve, you correctly assessed that early in the night.

“Thanks,” you smile, taking it, but not yet slipping it over your head. It’s a lovely dark blue, and seems a shame to deprive him of it. But it will look good on you too, and be a nice souvenir of the evening.

“So…” He clears his throat. You expect he wants you to leave. Luke is embarrassed, or feels exposed, and you sense what just transpired was perhaps more a surprise to him than you.

“Would you like to be alone?” you ask, trying to make it easy for him. It’s not quite yet dawn, and the booking has been paid through mid-morning. 

His chest is really something, you think, catching a glimpse of angular collarbones and sun-drenched sternum as he folds his arms again. Then, abruptly, Luke drops them to the sides.

“I—don’t know.” He sighs. “You said…” He glances briefly to the floor. “…You didn’t want me to ask you ‘anything else,’ and so I was in there,” he indicates the ‘fresher with his dimpled chin, “wondering exactly how far ‘anything else’ extended.”

Stars, he is sweet. What a find, this client with his perfect body, bruising kisses, obliging demeanor, and punishing stamina.

“Oh, that…” You grin, a small one, nothing implying he’s misunderstood. Your reward is the ghost of a similar expression on his lips. “I meant in the moment. Of course you can ask me anything, Luke. I don’t mind. And thank you, incidentally, for doing as I asked.” You lay a hand on his robed arm. “It was amazing.”

His smile turns a little sour.

“Don’t say I get paid to say that, Luke. It’s the truth.” You look at the tunic in your hands, debating. Maybe you _should_ just leave, especially if he’s going to dwell on hating your profession.

“You can use the ‘fresher.” The words are curt.

“Thanks.” Your reply to his change of subject is perfunctory, but you are grateful for the offer. More time killed, more chances to think of a way to have him again.

Your mind is unhelpfully blank as you wash, but as you exit the sonic, you decide to dress. Luke has been nothing but nice and accommodating, despite making it clear from the beginning that he didn’t want your services—even if he did _need_ them. And truly, he probably did just as much for you as you did for him. You know it helped, even if he would deny it. 

When you step out of the refresher, that foggy feeling in your head is strong and crippling. You stumble, boots falling from your hand where you were carrying them.

“Are you all right?”

Luke is there, supportive arms leading you to sit on the bed. You try to breathe. Maybe something really is wrong with you.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “There’s a strange feeling in my head, I’ve had it a couple times tonight. A pressure, almost like I’m drowning or submerged. It’s not painful, but I don’t know why…”

His hand is on yours, a small squeeze halting your words. 

“That’s awful.” He looks apologetic. “I think it’ll stop now. Is it gone?”

It is. You nod, wondering why Luke reacted the way he did. He lets out another sigh, like he’s exhaling the troubles of the world, and lies back on the bed.

“You can stay.” He throws a muscled forearm over his eyes. “If you want.”

“I’d like that,” you answer.

“You’re paid to say that,” he mumbles.

“I’ll give you a refund,” you say evenly, “so you can shut up about me being paid.”

“What?” He’s sitting back up now, blue eyes suspicious, mouth a thin line. 

“I’m serious. I’ll refund your friends. Tell the agency there was no one here and I had a headache so I went home. They won’t be charged.”

Luke shakes his head. “No, that’s not fair. And it’s not true.”

You shrug, removing your new tunic and tugging off the rest of your clothes. Crawling into the bed, you pat the vacant pillow alongside.

“I _didn’t_ work tonight. I was kriffed—very well, I might add—by a total stranger. For fun. That’s the truth.”

Luke raises an eyebrow at this echo of his earlier words, clearly battling between wanting to believe and cynicism. Finally, he lets the towel drop and slides between the sheets next to you.

“That’s not true either,” he remarks, closing his eyes.

You roll over, taking in his profile—the fine line of his jaw, the asymmetry of his nose, the cleft in his chin—and place a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth.

“How’s that?”

“I’m Luke. And you’re you. Strangers when we met, yeah, but not anymore.”

You laugh, settling in closer to him, content when his arm gently winds around you. His bicep makes a nice pillow, better than the one the hotel has provided.

“I’m so thankful to have met you, former stranger Luke,” you murmur.

“Same,” he replies, adding your name in a whisper as you close your eyes, smile still on your lips.


End file.
